


the hand that you need

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Pre-Season/Series 01, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 01:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14093922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: The first thing Jemma ever feels from her soulmate is loneliness.





	the hand that you need

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure I have anything to say about this one? *shrug* I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (And in case you missed it, check out [the fic I posted on Thursday](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14064270)! *shameless*)
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review! <3

The first thing Jemma ever feels from her soulmate is loneliness.

 _Loneliness_ , in fact, is an understatement. What hits her is a wave of devastation and isolation, all tied up in a hopeless, endless sort of emptiness, the likes of which she’s never felt before.

Eleven years old, Jemma—cherished and loved as she’s always been—reacts to this awful influx the only way she can.

She bursts into tears.

“Jemma!” her mum exclaims, abandoning their half-made breakfast to hurry over and hug her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“My—my soulmate,” she manages, somehow, to say around her sobs. “They— _he_ —” It’s a boy, she’s suddenly certain; she has that much sense of him, a bit of detail on the shore of the sea of despair he’s (they’re _both_ ) drowning in. “He’s so—so _lonely_ , Mum!”

Her mum makes a little sound and draws back from the hug. Her hands stay steady on Jemma’s shoulders, though, reminding her that _she’s_ not alone, that this heart-rending misery isn’t really hers.

“Lonely enough to make you cry?” her mum asks.

Jemma nods, feeling silly—there’s a better word for what she and her soulmate are feeling, surely, but her prodigious vocabulary is centered around _science_ , not emotions. If there’s a more precise term for this torture, it isn’t one she knows.

“It’s _awful_ , Mum,” she says.

Mum takes a deep breath. There’s something on her face, some other unnamable emotion Jemma’s never encountered before.

“Well, then,” she says, and hugs Jemma close again. “You give him that from me, all right, darling?”

Oh! Oh, Jemma didn’t even _think_ —of course she can do that! Her soulmate doesn’t need to be lonely; not while she’s on the other end of their bond, here and happy in her kitchen.

She closes her eyes and tries to reach out, tries to force through their nascent connection the feel of her mum’s arms around her, the morning light shining through the window, her joy at seeing the flowers she planted starting to bloom—tries to give him everything, _anything_ but the loneliness he’s feeling.

But the loneliness is so strong, it’s like slogging through mud.

 _I’m here_ , she thinks. Words can’t pass through the bond, she knows that, but she doesn’t know what sort of emotion would have the same effect; all she can do is give it her best go, and instinct tells her that her best go is this: _I’m here. I’m here. You’re not alone. I’m here. I’m here._

“I’m here. I’m here.” She realizes suddenly that she’s saying it aloud, whispering it to herself as her mum hugs her. “I’m here. Please don’t be lonely, I’m _right here_.”

Jemma doesn’t know how long she sits there, chanting the words in an endless stream while their porridge burns on the stove, but she _does_ know the moment when her efforts pay off and her feelings finally reach her soulmate.

Her success is tangible: her heart skips a beat in his shock, and then he’s reaching back, and she can tell—though she couldn’t possibly say how—that he’s tentative about it, worried…perhaps afraid that he’s imagined it?

With him actively participating, it’s much easier to send to him. She shoves everything she’s got at him: her excitement at finally feeling him; her sadness for his loneliness; the hope she holds in her heart, knowing now that she _does_ have a soulmate, that he’s out there somewhere and they’ll meet someday; and most of all, the same message she’s been trying for however long to send: _I’m your soulmate and I’m right here_.

It’s like the clouds parting after a weeks-long storm, the _relief_ that washes over her, washing away every drop of loneliness. Tears burn at her eyes again—happy ones, this time—and she has no idea whether they’re his or her own.

Relief is followed by—she doesn’t know what it is, precisely. Something good, something _warm_ , that wraps around her heart and settles right in.

She can’t help but think that her soulmate is saying _I’m here, too_.

It’s the best thing she’s ever felt.

 

+++

 

The night before her first thesis defense, Jemma has a horrible nightmare.

Later, she’ll blame the tutor who made her read _Flowers for Algernon_ when she was seven. Losing her intellect has been her greatest fear ever since, and it’s no surprise that it would make an appearance when she’ll so desperately need her wits about her.

In the moment, though, all she knows is that she wakes with tears on her cheeks and a scream trapped in her throat, the image of her examiners—who transformed into frightening monsters the moment she failed to remember even the broadest strokes of her own thesis—painted on the backs of her eyelids.

She’s so frightened she can’t even _breathe_ —

—and then her soulmate is there, reaching out, washing away the remnants of her fear with the force of his love and concern.

“Oh,” she says, and wipes away her tears. She tries to laugh at herself and mostly succeeds (though it _is_ awfully shaky). “You’re scaring your soulmate, Jemma.”

She reaches back, sending him reassurance and a touch of embarrassment, hoping to convey that she’s only being silly.

He meets her with doubt and more love and that indefinable warmth they shared the very first morning they connected, the thing she’s come to privately call just _presence_.

She’s also developed a habit of assigning words to what he sends her. It’s childish of her, she knows, but it makes her feel better about both the ambiguity of their connection and the fact that she _can’t_ talk to him, that they won’t ever share real conversation until they meet, however far away that day is.

This, she decides, the combination of love/concern/doubt/presence, plus a new touch of protectiveness that reaches her even as she thinks—this means _You’re not being silly, but you don’t need to be scared when I’m here_.

It’s a girlish thought, romantic and perhaps a little foolish, but she doesn’t think her soulmate would mind the assumption. He’s always so quick to share with her, to send his love along their connection—she can’t imagine he’s anything like her cousins (the only boys her own age she knows), who make faces at romantic scenes in films and call each other _sissies_ just for hugging their mums.

Her soulmate is better than them, she’s certain. _He_ wouldn’t mind being assigned a romantic hero’s words.

That in mind, she sends him her love and gratitude as she lays back down, followed by more reassurance in the hopes of communicating that she’s fine and he shouldn’t worry.

There’s a moment of quiet along their bond, and then—

“Oh,” she whispers, and squeezes her eyes shut.

In the last two years, their bond has strengthened and developed significantly, to the point that occasionally, with extreme effort, one of them is able to send the other physical sensation. It’s rare—not only between them (they’ve only managed it a total of seven times), but in society as a whole. Jemma’s done her research; only one in twelve soulbound pairs is ever able to convey sensation along the bond even once, and only one in three hundred is able to do it repeatedly.

(A very, very lucky one in six thousand is able to do it on a regular basis. Jemma tries not to be too jealous of that; she knows they’re fortunate to manage it as often as they have.)

And now, her soulmate’s done it again. She can feel arms wrapped around her, as fully and solidly as if he were right here in bed with her. If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear that he was, that somehow he’d crept in while she was distracted.

Guiltily, she pretends that he has—keeps her eyes closed and holds her breath, the better not to be reminded of the truth. She clutches her quilt and curls into the metaphysical embrace, loving her unknown soulmate with all her heart.

Neither one of them is alone. It’s the best feeling in the world, she’s sure.

 

+++

 

At last, after _months_ of angling and arguing—against Fitz, against Agent Weaver, and against an endless stream of concerned superiors who would much rather she stay safe and secure in her boring Academy lab— _finally_ , Jemma is going into the field.

Giddy excitement keeps bubbling up in her chest…and, obviously, across the bond. Every so often her soulmate reaches out, just a quick touch of amused affection, as if to ask _aren’t you calm yet?_

She can feel annoyance underneath it, lurking in the background, but knows it isn’t aimed at her. He’s having a bad day, she thinks, and hopes that her own good mood is helping at least a little. And if it’s not…well, she’s sorry about that, but she can’t _help_ it! She’s wanted for _ages_ to go into the field, and now, finally, it’s happening.

Not even Fitz and his silly, ridiculously named, non-functioning prototype can bring her down.

He insists on defending it, of course, listing off what he _wants_ it to be capable of—

“Yeah,” she says over him, “with a dose of only .1 microliters of dendrotoxin? I’m not Hermione; I can’t create instant paralysis with _that_.”

He tries to argue, but she’s used to that and keeps going; he’ll listen or he won’t, and sooner or later one of them will have a breakthrough and see the right way forward.

“You should have run the specs by me before building the mold,” she continues, mostly to herself, as she gathers up some misplaced folders…

And then a sudden _thump_ intrudes on their argument, and Jemma looks to the door and is immediately slammed with recognition. The sense of _knowing_ is so strong that it rocks her back on her heels.

But she’s never seen him before in her life (she’s sure of it; she’d remember those cheekbones). That only leaves—

“Oh,” she gasps, and rushes around the table to throw her arms around her soulmate. “Hello!”

Fitz makes a strangled noise behind her, but she can’t care about him; her soulmate’s arms are closing around her—for real, in _person_ , so much stronger than she ever realized in all their years sharing sensation.

“Hi,” he says, and oh, she likes his voice—both the timbre of it and the laugh she hears behind the words. “Nice to meet you, too…Fitzsimmons?”

Ah. Perhaps she should’ve saved the hugging until _after_ they’d exchanged names—but no.

“Simmons,” she corrects, leaning back in his arms to look up at him. “Jemma Simmons. He’s Fitz.” She can’t bring herself to let go of her soulmate long enough to gesture at Fitz, but she’s sure it’s unnecessary; he’s the only other person here, after all. “And I’m sorry, it’s just that I’ve needed to hug you since I was eleven years old.”

 Her soulmate’s face softens, edges of laughter fading away.

“Yeah,” he says. His fingers brush down her cheek, following the curve of her face. “Me too.”

She wonders if he’s thinking of that first day—of whatever caused him to be so lonely as to nearly crush them both with the weight of it.

Perhaps not; his sudden smile certainly suggests otherwise.

“So,” he says. “Excited to be on Coulson’s team?”

He knows because he’s been feeling her giddiness, of course. Because he’s her soulmate and they’re connected, and he’s _here_ , in person, and at last has context with which to interpret her emotions.

It’s _wonderful_.

“I am,” she confirms—and then frowns as she does some interpretation of her own. “But you aren’t, are you?”

“I _wasn’t_ ,” he stresses. “Not my first choice of assignment.” He smiles down at her, his hand coming up to brush a loose bit of hair out of her face. “But it’s looking up.”

“I’m glad,” she says—and speaking of looking up, he’s awfully tall. Perhaps she should invest in some sensible heels to replace her trainers; otherwise, she may need a stepstool to kiss him.

Assuming he’s _interested_ in kissing her. There’s always the chance he’d prefer a platonic match.

And on another note—

“You haven’t told me your name,” she says, and can’t help a little laugh; it’s silly to think she needs an _introduction_ , knowing him as well as she does.

“Right,” he says, shaking his head. “Sorry. Grant Ward.”

“Grant Ward,” she repeats, and the silly-little-girl part of her, the one that used to project such hopes on his every contact, whispers _Jemma Ward!_ in the back of her mind. She beams up at him. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and pulls her close again, wrapping her up in his arms so she feels as much as hears his voice, “you, too.”

Forget the field; _this_ is where Jemma belongs, right here in her soulmate’s arms.

All of her hopes and dreams seem to be crowding on her tongue, desperate to be voiced, to be _shared_ —but Fitz is still behind her. Looking away in discomfort, she’s sure, but still there. Her dreams are meant only for her soulmate—for _Grant_ —to hear. She doesn’t want an audience.

So, in lieu of conversation, she turns to their bond, sending him all of her excitement and joy and love, the glee of finally, after twenty-six years of life and fifteen years of connection, finally meeting him in person.

Grant hugs her that much tighter and pours back every bit of excitement/joy/love, with a tiny extra touch of presence.

 _I’m here_ , she tried so hard to tell him, that morning all those years ago…and now, at long last, she is.

They’re together. They’ll never be separated again.

She’s thought it and been wrong before, but this time, she’s certain: _this_ is the best feeling in all of existence.


End file.
